Peter's Drive-Inn
by TarynWanderer
Summary: On the lost generation of Robotropolis. Unfinished- started a year ago and lost in a horrible crash- newly recovered! I will finish soon. r/r


Stay tuned after for the legal lingo and author's note.   
Coming attractions from Taryn Wander'r.  
The Wonder Years Parts Three and Four- the continuation and conclusion of the mini-series.  
Bahtalo Drom: The Lucky Road- introducing my characters, the Cascadians, and explaining whatever happened to Emma and the servant children after they fled Mobotropolis.   


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Peter's Drive-In  
A Sonic the Hedgehog Fanfic  
By Taryn Wander'r (tarynw42@hotmail.com)   
  


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We'd been missing long before,  
Never found our way home.   
-Bush, 'Mouth'   
  
When we were young the future was so bright  
The old neighbourhood was so alive  
And every kid on the whole damn street  
Was gonna make it big and not be beat.  
Now the neighbourhood's cracked and torn  
The kids are grown up but their lives are worn  
How can one little street   
swallow so many lives?  
-The Offspring, 'The Kids Aren't Alright' 

  
  
Knothole, 3227 (Two years after the Coup)  
Rosie didn't know what to do with him. As the other children played before her, she watched the fifteen-year-old black cat hunched by the hut window, legs pulled up on a char in front of him, despite her warnings. Dressed in nothing but a beat up pair of spectator shoes, and a torn pair of old zoot slacks. Jeremy's cloudy green eyes peered out from under a shock of uncut black headfur, regarding the old book in his lap. Jeremy was always reading one book or another. That was far from the reason Rosie was worried about him; if only she could get some of the other older children to take such an interest in literature as Jeremy did. He didn't even bother to hide the evidence now, a pale pink elastoplast was taped on his left temple right next to his eye, and the boy looked like he hadn't gotten much sleep. Probably for fear of a concussion. At least Jeremy had the decency to change the bloodied dirty rag that covered the cut on his hand with a clean bandage this morning before the younger children saw. 

Rosie had often entertained notions of approaching him about his dangerous hobbies, of forbidding him to enter Robotropolis again, whether or not it was 'just to get a shake'. But Jeremy would probably simply ignore her, give her a defiant, wordless glance and go back that night for another 'milkshake'. He knew she disapproved, and she knew that he knew this. His sudden excursions to Robotropolis between school classes or at night had been their secret, until Julayla discovered the big white cup under his bed, with the plastic cover and straw, and words 'Peter's Drive-In' written on it in black magic marker. Jeremy told her the whole truth, about the burger joint in the city, about his 'friends' there. And she had banned him from leaving Knothole alone. But now Jeremy went for days on end, and made no attempt to hide his purposes- laser burns from SWATbots singed his black fur, scars and bandages were all over him. Then there was the clothing. 

Antoine, ten years old, looked up in awe at Jeremy. Antoine was the second oldest of the children in Knothole, even though Jeremy would have argued that he was 'far from a child' and the fact that he and Antoine were five years apart for heaven's sake. But nevertheless the two shared a hut, and after Julayla discovered Jeremy's affinity for Robotropolian milkshakes, he often brought back shoes and bits of clothing from the city for Antoine. The wealthy of the city, the Robotnik loyalists, wore odd and expensive Overlander clothing. Jeremy himself had a dresser full of the stuff, but rarely wore it in Knothole- only in the city. He liked those clothes. And he knew Antoine liked them too, so he brought some back for the kid. 

Jeremy felt Rosie's eyes on him, and lifted his own cloudy emerald ones to meet her. Wordlessly, he got to his feet, leaving his thick book on the chair behind him, and left. Rosie sighed. She didn't know what to do with him.   
  
++   
  
Jeremy leaned back in his makeshift computer chair, hardly large enough to accommodate his rapidly changing body, and stared at the glowing screen of the plundered computer before him. He sucked idly at the straw of a Peter's cup, regarding the text and maps, plans for tonight's makeshift attack, before him. Jeremy tossed the empty milkshake container in a nearby waste bin and put his feet up on his desk, fiddling with a bit of thread come loose from his hand's bandage. "Idiots," He muttered, no that he could have blamed them. Jeremy's friends in the city didn't have the access to a proper education the way he had, and they couldn't be held responsible for the error in their plans. Ah well. To err is mortal, to forgive divine. 

The door of the cozy little hut opened and in stormed a visibly perturbed Antoine D'Colette. Without even glancing at his older roommate and hero, Antoine slumped in the lower bunk. 

"What's wrong?" Jeremy asked after an appropriate pause. 

"I don't fit in," Antoine said after a moment, in the thick French accent that he had never managed to lose. "'Ze others, 'zey ees making fun of moi," Antoine poured out the rest of the story, stopping to reiterate when Jeremy failed to make out words through his accent. Apparently the kids had delusions of grandeur and fancied themselves to be heroes of the resistance in days to come. Antoine had that day been the brunt of jokes, given his frail frame and susceptibility to nightmares. The kid didn't eat enough. He was also plagued by memories of what had happened to them all only two years prior. The others were too young to fully understand the immensity of the events, and would probably forget them altogether in the years to come. Antoine, however, could remember everything as clearly as it had happened the day before. And it scared him. He tried to be brave, bless the kid, he really did, and only around Jeremy did he let his flimsy 'brave soldier' wall down and poured his heart out. Now he sat, looking dejectedly at his feet, while Jeremy leaned back and thought. 

Glancing back at the glowing computer screen, then at his bandaged hand, then back at Antonie. It was probably a bad idea, but then Jeremy was never one for very intelligent ideas, either. 

"So…you wanna be a hero, 'Twan?" 

Antoine lifted his head curiously. 

"Show them who's boss?" 

Slowly, a little fearfully, Antoine nodded his golden-beige head. 

Jeremy regarded the kid a little while longer, a slight stab of guilt coursing through him. Chaos knew he loved the kid like a little freaking brother, and would never do anything to put him in danger. On the other hand, no one else in Knothole seemed to bother to be a rolemodel for the kids, and that left Jeremy. And what Jeremy did was rebel. So the kid had to learn sometime…didn't he? It wasn't like Jeremy and his friends would be around forever, it was plausible that most of them would quit the game before it was won. It was almost like training a successor…right? Jeremy sighed and tried to push all doubt from his mind. The kid was old enough; the Ratboy was nearly half his age and had already debunked countless amounts of Robotnik's operations. 

Antoine had gone back to staring dejectedly at his feet. 

"C'mon." Jeremy got up and started dressing, not at all modest in a town where clothing was scarce. Black army boots, baggy dark green cargos, and a black sweater with white stripes down the sleeves under a black shirt. A tiny pocket existed just below his right elbow, where he often stored tiny objects of value, vital plans and arrangements, vital to Robotnik. Damned if Jeremy knew what to do with them. 

Antoine looked up curiously, and then he too pulled a black and blue soccer jersey over his head. "Where?" 

Jeremy shrugged. "Get a shake or somethin'." 

  
++   
  
Peter's Drive-In, Robotropolis, 21.50 hours. 

Remix flipped a few burgers and glanced out of the corners of her blue-green eyes at the pack of Robotnik sympathizers that had pulled up to the window. The fifteen-year-old pink hedgehog closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on her breathing, ignoring the waves of fear that passed over her. They couldn't find her here, they'd…*never* find her here! She had gone on this long without the authorities discovering her true identity, without Peter suddenly remembering and firing her from his establishment, throwing her from his home, out of his life. 

It had gone so well. Why was she so scared? This could work…it *will* work. One day justice will prevail. And until that day Remix would just have to settle with making shakes and flipping burgers for the pawns of her oppressor. 

She idly wondered if she would even be considered a threat. The only child of an advisor to the King, one of Robotnik's earliest enemies. Like Remix, then known by her given name Susan, could have been bothered with matters of state. She had been thirteen- what had mattered was clothes, music, boys and…this place. Back before it was Peter's. Charles Hedgehog's chilidogs were something she truly missed. That and…hot pizza, with melted cheese and piping hot pepperoni. Her old black swing dancing dress that she had to beg for permission to buy, the one that teased at a budding bosom, that stopped just above her knees, with little colorful martini glasses all over it. Idle summer days spent sitting on the edge of the old fountain in front of the palace, talking about nothing and checking out the cute new guards as they came and went. 

But all that was gone now. Susan had awoken under a pile of rubble, her parents unconscious beside her, her newborn baby brother bawling in the next room. Her new black dancing dress was torn and stained with her own blood, with mechfluid and grease from the marauding machines. She remembered stumbling to her brother's room, picking him up from his crib and trying to hush him, lest he attract more machines. Susan buried herself in the closet, crushing the baby close to her, covering them both with coats. She heard the SWATbots blast through the door, heard them scan for life forms. Holding her breath, willing her own heart to stop beating, Susan had somehow been overlooked. Daring a peek out the closet door, she witnessed her own parents being brutally beaten and scarred, until both were dead. Unwilling to watch but unable to look away, she saw her own beloved parents dismembered and simply tossed into the rubble, not even fit for the life of a mechanical slave. 

It was then her baby brother chose to cry again. 

Susan panicked, crushing the baby to her chest; all logic fled her mind in that desperate attempt to silence the child. 

It worked. The SWATbots left, and Susan stayed crouched like that for what could have been hours. 

When she finally willed herself to look up, she glanced down at the baby in her arms. Silent. Dead silent. Susan wondered for a moment if she had suffocated him, but it soon became clear in her mind that she had broken his neck. 

In what might have been shock, Susan stayed in the closet quivering, the baby's corpse lying at her feet. Suddenly, one day, a light was cast over her. A young badger, probably in his mid-to-late twenties, stood over her. Neither spoke. He felt her forehead, checked her over for broken bones or lacerations or anything else. He cast a look at the baby lying dead at her feet, and took the dress off her. Susan made no move to stop him as he wrapped her in a thick brown blanket. He gently, almost reverently, wrapped the baby's corpse in Susan's dancing dress- the black one with little colorful martini glasses all over it. He gave her a gentle, knowing look and murmured softly that he'd be right back. He returned without the baby. He never told her where he buried it. 

Peter, as she later came to know him, had awoken in the rubble of the old chilidog stand. He remembered that his name was Peter, but that was pretty much the extent of it. He thought he might have worked at the chilidog stand before. Asking her gently if she knew where she was, she responded after a moment of thought that, no, she didn't. 

Peter took her in, into an abandoned mansion near the palace and the chilidog stand. He clothed her with clothing stolen from the wealthy sympathizers; he even gave her a name. Remix. The chilidog stand was restored, somewhat, into a drive-in serving Robotropolis' best milkshakes and burgers. Well, probably Robotropolis' only milkshakes and burgers. This business fed and clothed the children, none of whom remembered their pasts, that started to fill the big empty mansion the days after Remix was brought there. 

Life had been going okay. Until a few of the older children got it into their heads to start a resistance against Robotnik. They stole hardware, raided factories and buildings. Lives were lost before Peter was let in on the secret. 

He had forbidden it. He had said that as long as they lived under his roof, they'd obey his rules. So, naturally, the rebels left. They housed up in abandoned hotels and apartment buildings, in the parts of town not likely to be restored and inhabited by the elite of Robotropolis. The elite who weren't killed by their own leader. 

It had been fine for Remix. She had never wanted to get dragged into the whole thing. Then, like an idiot, she had fallen in love with LarsLess, one of the leading rebels. And this was a difficult time in their career- FixxLo, his best friend and a prime freedom fighter, who had turned to crystalMethod long ago to find condolence, had somehow fallen in love with LizzyClaire, the rich daughter of one of Robotnik's right-hand men. So now, instead of either being drugged out in a bathroom stall or trying to help the resistance, he was either drugged out in a bathroom stall or sucking LizzyClaire's face. The Ratboy, a five-year-old computer whizkid and tag-a-long was constantly falling ill and had only LarsLess to take care of him. 

So Remix had been talked into this stupid raid. For the Ratboy's sake, LarsLess had said. For the Ratboy's sake indeed. He was just taking advantage of her natural giving and maternal nature.

Remix sighed again and glanced at the clock in the grimy corner. She might as well slip out early, nobody would notice. Stepping into the dark, dingy and dirty bathroom she slipped out of her uniform white scrubs and back into her comfortable black polyester pants, with silver binary code written up the sides. Lars had swiped them for her from one of the upper-class shops. She didn't really approve of stealing, but if it weren't for Peter that was how she would have survived, and they were really nice pants. She pulled a purple hooded sweatshirt over her head, grabbed a few chocolate shakes on her way out, and headed out to find LarsLess and get on with it.

++

Meanwhile, in another part of town.

LarsLess slunk along the high railings of the old warehouse, pirated hardware wrapped up in his old zoot shirt, slung over his shoulder. He was a young red fox, his fur blackened with the soot and dust of crawl-spaces he had recently pushed himself through. His nose ran from his slight cocaine withdrawal, and his old sneakers were blackened and torn by the metal city. LarsLess came to rest against an old, semi-destroyed billboard advertisement for soda pop. He unwrapped the hardware and checked if it had survived his bumpy trip. He sucked at the blood slowly dripping from the semi-circular cut in his left paw, and tied a strip of the old shirt tightly around it. 

The young fox wrapped the hardware back up again, tiny bombs and discs containing simply temporary security viruses, and slung the zoot shirt back over his shoulder. It was getting late. He figured it was time to head out and meet up with Remix. 

The sound of giggling stopped LarsLess in his tracks, and he sunk back into the shadows. 

Peering carefully over the walkway floor, under the railings, LarsLess watched a pretty, young, and obviously affluent lynx, with long silver hair and huge green eyes, dressed in a…cheerleader's outfit? Lars' eyes really widened as he realized the letters of Ivo Academy, the only school in Robotropolis, which of course only educated and brainwashed the children of Robotnik's followers. It was set up in the restored building of Dameon A, a Mobotropolis school that educated the children of Acorn's best and brightest. LarsLess recognized the girl as LizzyClaire, daughter of one of Robotnik's favourite yes-men. She was giggling madly, big, expensive high-heeled boots stumbling over the metal floor, supported by…Fixx. The son of a bitch. LarsLess bit his lip as he took in FixxLo's new appearance. Big black shoes and baggy cargos, embroidered with dragons up the back of one leg. He wore a clean, nice and brand new white shirt with long red sleeves. Fixx had done pretty well for himself it seemed. Lars wondered for an instant if maybe FixxLo had cleaned up his act. 

"I'm bored," LizzyClaire whined as she slumped onto a pile of old rags. "Got any crystal rage?"

Well. Apparently he hadn't.

"No, sorry babe."

"Not even half a twist?"

FixxLo shook his head and feigned an air of insincere guilt at Lizzy's pout. "I do, however, have something better." LarsLess leaned forward as the young black panther pulled out a vial of something liquid, viscous, orange, and glowing.

"What is it?" LizzyClaire cupped the vial in her paw and let the light splash over her face. 

"Swizzle." Lars could hear the grin in FixxLo's voice. "Better than crystalMethod. More addictive than heroin. At half the price of your average smack."

"How do you take it?" Lizzy turned the vial in her hands thoughtfully. LarsLess became uncomfortably aware of his own addiction, the gnawing emptiness inside him. He reached for his own vial hanging around his neck, usually full of that life-giving white powder, only to find it empty. He sighed, well, more like sobbed silently, and turned his attention back to his former best friend and his new lover.

"Just drink it. It's easy. Or you can stir some into a drink or food." Fixx watched as his girlfriend opened the vial to find a rubber stopper with a small hole. She lifted the vial, lifted her head, and sucked at the little hole a bit. LarsLess couldn't see any noticeable drop in the quantity of the vial, but LizzyClaire nonetheless pulled the vial from her lips and clenched her eyes shut. 

"Fuck, Fixxie, where do you _get_ this shit?"

Lars cocked an eyebrow. _Fixxie_?

"A chemist friend of mine. Well, not so much a chemist as an anarchist who's into industrial music." 

"Wait, wait, wait," Lizzy stared up at FixxLo, trying to be serious, but it was obvious that the Swizzle was working it's way into her system. "You can't be friends with a freedom fighter. What would Father _think_?" FixxLo just grinned and sucked a little Swizzle for himself, as LizzyClaire went on. "'Course, what would he think if he saw me getting high with a former freedom fighter?"

FixxLo's grin spread, if that was possible. "Or that his darling little daughter had a Meth addiction the size of South Island, not to mention one fine ass…"

LizzyClaire giggled and buried her face into the crook of FixxLo's neck. LarsLess sighed inwardly and backed away towards the high door of the warehouse. He wanted some cocaine. And Remix. All he really wanted to do right now was to get some cocaine, and then go see Remix. And what LizzyClaire and FixxLo did while they were high was their business. 

++

Antoine stared wide-eyed at the chrome and neon city. Jeremy glanced back at him and reached out a hand. 

"C'mon. It's okay." He reassured the boy. 

Antoine glanced up at the cat, then slowly took his hand. Anywhere else he would have been horrified at the sight of an older boy taking his hand, _holding_ his hand like he were a mere child. But the gnawing darkness of the city, illuminated in spots only by high, glowing neon billboards, was getting to the golden-haired child.

"'Twan?" Antoine was suddenly aware of Jeremy calling his name softly again. 

"Uh…oui?" 

"You okay?" 

Jeremy was staring intensely into Antonie's eyes. Antoine shook his head a bit. "Oui, I am being okay…"

The fifteen year old cat narrowed his green eyes at the child before him for a moment before shrugging it off. "Alright." 

Antoine uneasily followed Jeremy through the darkness of the alleys, inexplicably aware of the silence around him. But there was no way he'd confess his fear to Jeremy, no way. The last thing he needed was Jeremy, the last person in the world that he trusted, to think he was a coward. Just like the rest of them. 

"Here," Jeremy stopped after what seemed like forever in an enclosed clearing between four buildings. He lifted Antoine to sit on the platform of a concrete staircase. "We're gonna meet Remix and Lars and the Ratboy here." 

"Who?" 

Jeremy glanced up at Antoine, as if he thought the boy were someone else . "Oh, sorry. Remix and Lars, they're friends of mine. Ratboy kinda follows them around, he's coming with us tonight to. He's a little younger than you." 

A shuffle was heard somewhere in the corner, at least by Jeremy. Antoine had yet to tune his senses and reflexes to that of a true freedom fighter. The cat tensed up and turned to his back to Antoine, protecting the boy.

"J..Jeremy?" A soft, feminine voice ose from the shadows. 

"Remix?" To Antoine's surprise, instead of an armed SWATbot or patrol vehicle, a young, skinny, female, and pink hedgehog stepped out of the shadows. 

"Dude!" The girl, Remix, carried a load of styrofoam cups in some paper holders. In messy, black magic marker, the words "Peter's Drive-In" were hastily scribbled. She ran forward, placing her burden on the dirty concrete ground, and wrapped her arms around Jeremy. "I thought you wouldn't be able to come. That you were stuck in Knothole tonight." 

"Nah," Jeremy shrugged. "They couldn't hold me back from seeing you with a friggin' electrified forcefield." 

Remix peered over Jeremy's shoulder at the stiffened child on the concrete platform. "Who's this?" She asked, somewhat suspiciously. 

"This? This is Antoine. My little brat of a brother." Antoine's eyes really widened with that, and he smiled at the fact that Jeremy would call him his brother. 

"Hey," Remix extended a hand, which Antoine chivalrously took and kissed. 

"Mon cherie," He murmured charmingly. 

Remix grinned, her face positively lighting up. "My," She said. "Jeremy, where did you find this Casanova?" 

"I'm right here, baby," Another voice joined them, and a dirty young fox with a bandaged hand strode from the darkness. Remix's smile changed, it was dreamier this time. 

"Lars," She said teasingly, slowly putting her arms on his shoulders. "Where have you been?" 

"Checking in on the enemy," Antoine noticed LarsLess toying with a small glass vial hung around his neck. "Seems Fixxie's doing good for himself?" 

"Fixxie?" Antoine asked. Lars glanced at him, seemed to judge him pretty quickly, and responded. 

"Fucking traitor. Sacrificed it all to do some rich slut," Once again, Antoine's eyes widened at the obscenity. Lars didn't notice as his lips sought out Remix's. Jeremy leaned back against the staircase.

When the two broke their embrace, Remix glanced up. "Is the Ratboy around?" 

"Oh yeah," LarsLess looked up as well. "Hey Ratboy! You there?" 

"Yeah, yeah," A very young sounding voice answered from the above darkness. Down the pipes of one of the old buildings shimmied a very young, very small, very skinny, and very dirty child. Antonie was surprised to find that the Ratboy was not, indeed, a rat, but an extremely malnourished, tough-looking, and filthy rabbit. His fur would have been a nice buttercup blonde, not unlike Bunnie's, but it was instead covered in blood and dirt from Chaos knew when. His ears were both scarred with numerous chinks in the sides, and he wore a bloodied bandage around his head. The Ratboy lived up to his name well- he was dressed all in ratty rags, homemade boots from pieces of old tires and Gore-Tex someone found in a dump, and held together with shoplifted neon green shoelaces. A computer keyboard was strapped to his back, along with a myriad of tiny hardware pieces, cords, discs, and terminals. Despite his age of five short years, the Ratboy was a prime hacker and could have been a child prodigy, had someone taught him to write properly, spell, do basic math or stay off drugs. But some things should just never happen to children- mostly stuff that had happened to the Ratboy at one point in his short life. 

Antoine stared at the encrusted ruffian in front of him. The Ratboy sneered and jerked a thumb at him. "Who's this loser?" 

"Shut up, Ratty." Lars threw back. He glanced at Jeremy. "Who is he, anyway?" 

"This is Antoine." Jeremy said it slowly, obnoxiously, and the Ratboy rolled his eyes. "He's from Knothole. He'll be joining us tonight." 

"Your name ees Ze Ratboy?" Antoine could not hold his curiosity in any longer. 

"Yeah. What of it?" 

"But you ees being a rabbit." 

"So?" 

"So why do they be calling you Ze Ratboy?" Antoine was bewildered. 

"I dunno," The Ratboy shrugged it off. "Why do you talk like that?" 

"Like what?" 

"Like that. All funny and shit." Another vulgarity Antonie was unaccustomed to. 

"Antoine's not from Mobotropolis," Jeremy explained. "He's got an accent. That's why he talks all funny and shit." 

"…oh," For all his compute r genius, the Ratboy had a hard time understanding this, as he had never been outside Robotropolis since the coup and couldn't remember anything before that. 

LarsLess and Remix were back at necking each other. Antoine gasped a little. 

"What?" Jeremy asked. 

"He…he ees squeezing her…her behind…" The Ratboy laughed raucously. 

"That's what they do, stupid!" 

"Shut up, Ratboy," Jeremy said in Antoine's defense. "Now if you guys are _quite_ done, can we get this show on the road?" 

TO BE CONTINUED

* * *

  
  
*Legal lingo- Robotnik, Snively, Robotropolis, Rosie & Julayla etc. etc, all owned by Archie/Dic/Sega/whoever just not me. What I do with them is, however, mine, as are Jeremy, Remix, LarsLess, Peter, and the others. Peter's Drive-In is a great restaurant here in Calgary, no copyright infringement intended, but this is my way of immortalizing a Calgary landmark since the fifties. :-) 'Peter's Drive-In' the fanfic copyright 2000 Taryn Wander'r. Feel free to distribute this in anyway as long as you don't claim it as your own, or make money off it. If you want to, say, feature my characters in your own fic or make a comic out of this or something, that's fine if you email me first at tarynw42@hotmail.com. You can find this and many other things of mine at http://www.angelfire.com/ok2/WayfarersPost* 


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